When there was this kind of money involved, he knew not to bring the merchandise without cash up front. All of it. They’d tried to pull a fast one on him yesterday; they’d learned real quick they weren’t dealing with a novice. Adam had been a prick, but he’d taught Roger the tricks of the trade. Only now, with Adam six feet under, Roger wouldn’t have to take orders or get a small percentage of the take. He’d run the website, handle the back end, and his new partner would provide the sex tapes. Fifty-fifty split. Roger was confident the cash would stream in fast, and he’d learned from Adam how to manage the credit cards of their customers and funnel money to offshore accounts. Best of all, without Adam around, Roger wouldn’t have to worry anymore about the snuff films that had brought the Feds down on them in the first place. If Adam hadn’t gotten his ya-yas off strangling the women he screwed, they’d never have been busted. Rape was a crime, but murder was a whole other story.
All Roger needed was some up-front cash to set up the offshore operation. It didn’t matter that he was on parole; he’d skip out and never again step on American soil. That took more money than he could make working fifty-hour weeks at his cousin’s car dealership changing oil. Originally, he’d demanded twenty thousand for startup costs, but when they expressed interest in Adam’s old jewelry box, Roger doubled the buy-in.
Roger’s contacts had given him the thumbs-up on the players involved, but he still hadn’t liked any of the meeting places they suggested—too great a chance of being caught on a damn security camera. He’d told them the marina. Secluded, but close to everything and best of all, no surveillance cameras, few hiding places, and no witnesses. He was taking a risk, but the potential rewards were well worth it. Besides, using his old contacts, Roger had tracked these guys down. It wasn’t as though they’d been looking for him. He’d kept a low profile since getting out six months ago.
He’d rather be dead than go back.
He spotted his new partner approaching the rendezvous point. The man was wearing jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a Yankees baseball cap—just like he’d said. Roger glanced around, saw no one else, and waited for the man to reach him.
“Hey,” Roger said casually, sizing up the other man.
“The box?” The man’s voice was raspy, as if he’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for decades, though he didn’t smell of cigarettes now.
“You got my advance?” Roger was waiting for entrapment clues—such as him explicitly saying that he was using the money to set up an illegal porn website—but the guy didn’t go into details. An agreement could mean anything in court. Sure, he was in the marina after dark—a misdemeanor, and he could technically be thrown back in prison for even the smallest slip-up—but they still couldn’t get him on anything big.
“I want the jewelry box and everything inside.”
“I want to see the money first.” Did this guy think he was an idiot?
Tensing as the man reached into his pocket, Roger’s hand moved to the gun in his waistband, but he didn’t need to use it. His new partner handed him an envelope.
Roger frowned. “A little thin for forty g’s. This isn’t what we agreed to.”
“You were supposed to bring the box.”
“You were supposed to give me half the cash yesterday. What kind of partnership is this if you can’t live up to your end of the deal?”
“Open it. You’ll understand.”
Cautious, but curious, Roger opened the unsealed envelope and removed a folded piece of paper. It was blank, with a faded photo tucked between the folds. A beautiful teenage girl with long black hair and large, sultry brown eyes stared at him in the faint light.
His instincts had him reacting almost before he recognized the dead girl, but not fast enough. Roger dropped the photo and paper and went for his gun, but the man moved faster, karate-kicking his wrist. In the faint glow from the dim lights over the dry dock, for the first time Roger saw the man’s face dead-on.
Another ghost from his past.
“I wish I could be the one to put the bullet in your head,” the man said before slamming Roger face first into the hard-packed dirt. A burst of pain told him his nose might be broken. He swallowed a thick wad of blood.
Coughing, Roger tried to rise, but the traitor kicked him between the legs three times with steel-toed boots. Excruciating pain froze him. It was worse than when he’d been raped in prison. And then, he’d had his revenge. This time he wouldn’t get the chance. Panic and self-preservation rose with the pain as he tried to stand, only to be knocked back down.
“Mr. Morton.” The quiet, cultured voice didn’t belong to his attacker. Roger hadn’t heard another man approach, and the idea that two—or more—men stood over him made him tremble even as he tried to get up one last time.
A boot in his balls had him seeing nothing. He almost didn’t hear the slide of the nine-millimeter.
“I wish this hurt you more, but in this case expediency is more important than my personal satisfaction at seeing you suffer. Rot in Hell, bastard.”
Roger Morton was dead before he registered the sound of the gunshot.
ONE
Present Day
Brad Prenter thought he had a get-out-of-jail-free card, but Lucy Kincaid would set him straight.
She glanced at the clock on her computer and frowned. It was nearly six, and she’d promised her brother Patrick she wouldn’t be late after canceling their dinner plans twice last week.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered as she split the large screen into six open chat windows that she could monitor simultaneously. “You’ve been here every day this week at five. Why are you late tonight?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Women and Children First! director Frances Buckley walking toward her desk. Fran had retired from the FBI nine years ago after putting in twenty-five years, and though she was sixty, she looked and acted a decade younger. After Lucy had started volunteering for WCF three years ago, Fran quickly became her mentor. She’d written a glowing recommendation letter for Lucy’s FBI job application and had helped her prepare for both the written and verbal tests. And for the last three months, Fran had helped Lucy cope with the anxiety of waiting to hear whether she’d made it to the next stage in the hiring process.
Lucy didn’t allow herself to think that she could be rejected. Still, she knew the process could take months, and not knowing either way was frustrating. For the last six years, all she’d wanted was to be an FBI agent. Everything she’d done—her double major in psychology and computer science; her internships with the U.S. Senate, the Arlington County Sheriff’s Department, and now the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office; her volunteer work at high schools and here at WCF—was calculated to help her get into the FBI. She hoped the hiring panel could see that what she’d learned would make her a strong addition to the Bureau.
Fran put a hand on the back of Lucy’s chair. “Tick-tock. It’s six o’clock, Lucy.”
“Five more minutes. Prenter isn’t online yet, and he always logs on in the late afternoon.”